As a result of some recent trends in male hygiene including facials, manicures and waxing and due to the ability of some well-known male artists like Justin Bieber to call the entire idea of masculinity into question, many pundits of different creeds, colors and class have tried to reclaim the idea of manhood. This reclamation seems to center on the Paleo movement, wilderness retreats and a new found appreciation for beards. However, I question the basic premise.
Yes, there are disturbing trends. For instance, Mark Sanchez:
But is that really any different than this?
Well, as a matter of fact, yes. It doesn’t matter what Sean Connery is wearing. Even if he was getting a cucumber facial while a small Vietnamese woman applied wax to his nether regions, Sean Connery is still James Bond. And he’s a man who may get photographed wearing a wedding dress but could also make this little number his b**ch:
The problem is not so much a lack of manhood. It’s just that for every Daniel Craig, we have two or three Ashton Kutchers. That’s not a good ratio.
There’s probably not a whole lot we can do, though. The death knell sounded the day we went from this:
It always comes back to A-Rod.
All it took was a new NFL collective bargaining agreement to make my globetrotting and oft voguish colleague, Mr. Allen Krause (9 year-old version pictured above), rejoice like he was at a Justin Bieber concert. Now that we know there will be football, Mr. Krause can use his soon-to-be Detroit Tigers disappointment as a perfect segue into yet another Detroit Lions season of disappointment.
The world will be good.
Still, I have a hard time congratulating a group of unionized millionaires on doing what they should have done to begin with. I know the owners were skimming and scheming, but these things need to be addressed and taken care of PRIOR to a lockout, PRIOR to pissing off a Joe Six-Pack fan base, PRIOR to holding my sports news hostage.
DIDN’T THEY LEARN ANYTHING FROM THE 1994 MLB STRIKE!?!?!
Look, I nearly died in ’94. I was crushed like a man forced to watch his lover in bed with another man. I went so far as to QUIT baseball for the entire 1995 season. If it weren’t for an Albert Belle sized tub of syringes and a jheri curl renaissance, I might still be hootin’ and hollerin’ over the CICL.
But, as is usually the case, no one cares how we, the fans, feel. As long as we keep schleppin’ out the dough, sports franchises and the athletes who make them will continue to spit on us. Because they can.
And, I can attest, a certain Mr. Krause would be the very first in line with a pocketfull of benjamins for some Matt Stafford lugeys.
Hate me. It’s cool. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Uh oh. Don’t look now, Evil Empire, but the Yankees probably aren’t going to be successful in Plan B now that the shirt untucking Brewers have jumped in and made a deal for Zack Greinke. And since the only other arm out there not attached to a ticking time bomb (*ahem* Carlos Zambrano) is Carl Pavano, well, that leaves the Yankees… er… in quite an uncomfortable situation.
Ready to entertain creative alternatives to mend their starting rotation holes, Cashman and company have taken to the teeny bopper concert scene. Indeed, a young arm stuck in the sea of puberty is just ready to make his (or her) debut:
More accurate than Joba. And probably a lot less annoying.
I say go for it.
Hate. Me. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Outside of baseball, there’s really only one man worth wearing the crown of my man-crushdom. Whether its his svelte good looks, his vocal charm, or his ability to cheat on multiple baby’s mamas and still be adored by all… this man is someone I’d like to be, if only for a day.
That man’s name is…
So imagine the pure shock, the horror, the Crying Game-esque gut twisting reaction I had when I was informed that Usher was responsible for the comeuppance, development and overnight success of the height-challenged lesbian look-alike from Canada, Justin Bieber.
If it’s pop-culture-to-baseball analogies you’re lookin’ for, look no more, dear readers. For Usher is the St. Louis Cardinals. He’s tops among R&B artists. He’s consistently good. He’s been around the winner’s circle. He belongs among the best.
Justin Bieber? He’s the Cincinnati Reds. A mere fart in the grand world of entertainment, he too will eventually dissipate back into nothingdom, where he belongs.
The Reds boast a team of Cardinal has-beens: Scott Rolen, Jim Edmonds, Russ Springer… hell, even Walt Jocketty. During the course of a 162 game season, even has-beens find time to shine.
But like Justin Bieber and his awkwardly prolonged fifteen minutes of fame, eventually the Reds will burn out…
…the Cards will be on top…
…and Usher will be asking:
Hate me ‘cuz I wanna eradicate Bieber Fever, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
(Special thanks to C for the vomit-inducing photo)
Say what ya want about the mighty market divas of the Yankees, the Red Sox, the Dodgers. Go ahead and hate on A-Rod, slam Manny, spit on Youk… whatevs. Sometimes they deserve it; sometimes they don’t. It’s all a part of professional sports.
But no matter how infantile and annoying MLB superstars can be (yes, I’m looking at you, Milton Bradley), none of them quite qualify as being as toxically asinine as Nicolas Anelka and his band of busted b!tches that once formed the French national soccer team.
You think Roberto Alomar spitting on John Hirschbeck was bad? Imagine Roberto Alomar spitting on John Hirschbeck during the World Series, with a big nasty particle-filled loogey, and all his teammates joining in.
Yeah. That’s sorta what France’s World Cup was like. But at least it’s over. And now we can think about… things that are worse than France. For instance:
Duh. You knew that was comin’.
Rob Blagojevich’s Image
For all of you who live outside of Illinois, be glad you do; ‘cuz this Blago crap is just now gettin’ started for real. The lego hair, the smarmy and disingenuous smile, the creepy way he talks to every woman as if she were a dumb, money-chasin, cheap-trick-happy cocktail waitress… this dude is going to the joint. Eventually.
You knew that was comin’ too.
It makes me sick that he was in my neighborhood. It makes me even more sick to know that he was at Sox Park. And it makes me Bush-Sr-Throwin-Up-On-Japanese-People sick to know he tossed the first pitch to Mark Buehrle!
You didn’t think this could end with anything worse, did you? I’m pretty sure I heard the Astros’ team on-base-percentage was the worse on-base-percentage in the history of time, including all dimensions — even those we are unaware of yet…
That’s why they’re called the LOLstros.
Hate me. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.